Where does love find a home in homeless hands,
between fingers frayed like threadbare fabric,
holding warmth as if it were a secret fire?
It drifts in unanchored hearts,
beneath the moon's half-baked glow,
finding itself at the edge of sidewalks,
in the quiet sanctuaries of doorways,
in the press of tired bodies to pavement.
It shelters beneath cardboard temples,
words scrawled in ink as homesick as longing,
"Anything helps,"
where help is a coin and a prayer,
where the smallest kindness stitches light into night.
Love crouches low in hungry bellies,
in the tremble of worn shoes,
where miles have left imprints like unspoken promises.
It wraps itself in donated blankets,
in layers pulled tight against the chill of indifference.
Where does love rest?
Perhaps in the way two voices murmur at dawn,
sharing the tenderness of knowing,
no bed, no walls, no home but each other,
just a city as vast and careless as the stars
that shine above without asking why.
And there it finds its pulse,
its homeless heartbeat,
fragile, yet unbroken.
